


A Touch of Jasmine

by ClumsyChicken



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort No Hurt, Crush at First Sight, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Love at First Sight, One Shot, POV First Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15164510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClumsyChicken/pseuds/ClumsyChicken
Summary: All it takes is one loaded glance across a crowded room—then Mairon just might end up crying: “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!”





	A Touch of Jasmine

Thumping music, screams and shouts and chatter, my own thumping heartbeat—the noise blanket chokes all other impressions. A sigh creeps out of my throat and I put the cup to my lips and throw back its sugar-sweet contents. Curse my short stature. I might as well be underwater with how things are looking at the moment.

   I scan the tacky living room from left to right. Overgrown boys playing beer pong, a couple that won’t last making out like their lives depend on it, young women on the couch next to me gossiping as if other people’s drama is the single most interesting thing in this universe. This is below me. What little hope I had in this host is extinguished for good. Or, at least, while all this booze still courses through my veins.

   I rise to my feet. After promptly flopping back down, I try again with a hand on the armrest. Past me, who decided to wear both pumps _and_ get plastered within 1½ hours, is far beyond my current understanding and probably not done causing me trouble. Setting my red cup down on the coffee table for someone else to clean up, I do my best to stride out of here. Judging by how people’s smiles fade and the ocean of dancers part when I approach, I’m managing.

   After seizing my cashmere jacket and reapplying my ruby lipstick in the entrance hall mirror, I make sure to scowl into the nearest room—which happens to be the kitchen. I can't storm out the door without making my displeasure known at least one last time. The frown falls from my face when I lay eyes on her. The fire in my gut becomes mere embers and I freeze in place as if struck by lightning.

   She’s sitting on a marble kitchen counter, thighs flattening out despite her crossed legs. I can’t make sense of the dress she’s wearing, besides the fact that it’s long, flowing, all-black, and at least partly transparent. Her enormous combat boots stand in sharp contrast to its elegance, though she’s somewhat tamed that grace with several vintage belts. Bracelet upon bracelet are stacked up and down her hairy arms, but her bulging biceps effortlessly outshine each and every one. A clove cigarette sits nestled between her index and middle fingers and heavy necklaces rest between her breasts. You’d think they have their own gravitational field, they demand my attention so much.

   Our eyes meet. Shivers slither down my spine. Flanked by her black mane and dark make-up, her gaze is utterly piercing—a void that sees right through me and draws me in. A breath forces itself down my throat. I’m finally released from her spell, if only for a moment. She sits perfectly still and stares at me, alone but in no way lonely. She’s like a snowy mountain that towers above the rest of the bright, lively forest. A hint of a smile ghosts across her face as she wraps her black-painted lips around her cigarette and takes a long, long drag.

   That’s when I clear my throat, close my jacket, and rush out the door.

   The cool breeze hits me like rain does a wilting flower. As if I’d been underwater, holding my breath, and finally reach the surface again. But I’m still swimming. My eyes, my head, my balance. My gaze drifts around the night-bathed suburbs and up towards the stars. At some point I arrive home. In my haze, she’s still on my mind. She’s gripped my spine, my throat, my heart and refuses to let go. If she’s in my dreams, too, I'll cherish them until the day I die—if I remember anything in the morning, of course.

 

*

 

This ring is going to be amazing. Much better than the last. This metal is perfect, if a little pricy. Add to cart alongside my tools, one-click buy, premium shipping, don't mind if I do. I switch tabs back to my final grade. The A+ shining in my face calms my inner scrooge and loosens the knot in my stomach.

   I barely get to lean back, stretch my arms above my head, and release a sigh before the barista calls out another name.

   "Mairon!" they say as they place my tall glass of vanilla cold brew on the counter. I scoot out from my booth, untangle my shoe from my bag's strap, and stride towards the counter. When I lay eyes on my drink again, I stop dead in my tracks. I can almost feel the heat drain from my cheeks.

   She's cradling it in her hands, turning and twisting it, examining it as if checking for flaws. While the rest of the evening is a drab blur in my memory, she was frolicking through my memory all night. I could never forget that face, those eyes, that look. She's even bigger than she seemed when I first saw her. Even if she wasn't wearing 6-inch heels, she'd tower over me. Her stomach protrudes above her charcoal wash jeans and below her lace crop top. Despite that pudge and the happy trail, I can visualize the abs hiding just underneath it all. Coupled with her soft muscles and her height, she's about twice as wide as me.

   I press my lips closed and inhale through my nostrils while my cheeks rollercoaster back to being more or less on fire. With a smile playing on her lips, she takes a whiff of my coffee and levels that gaze at me.

   "Mairon. Did they misspell 'Marion' somehow?" she asks. There's a sultry drawl to her tone that almost makes me freeze up again. If I didn't know any better, I'd think merely looking at her invokes some sort of dark paralyzing magic.

   "No. That's just my name," I say with a lopsided shrug. She flashes an even more crooked smirk and gives me a quick elevator-look.

   "Adventurous parents?" she says. I put on my most sugary sweet smile.

   "I suppose so," I say and pick it from her hands. At the last second, she moves her fingers ever so slightly, ensuring that we touch. Her hands are much colder than mine.

   "Good lord, woman. Put some gloves on or something," I say, cocking a brow at her. Her smirk turns into a goofy smile when she starts giggling. The mere sound and the way her chest and stomach jiggle when she laughs is enough to send butterflies cascading through my gut. I'd hope the feeling didn't show on my face as well, if that telltale heat in my cheeks didn't give away the fact that it so absolutely does.

   "Usually people find it odd that I _do_ wear gloves indoors. Damned if I do, damned if I don't," she says. I spot something glimmering inside her mouth. A tongue piercing, waiting to be found like a pearl inside an oyster. I steal her smirk from where she dropped it.

   "You care what other people think?" I ask and take a sip of my cold brew. She raises her brows momentarily and shifts her weight on her broad hips.

   "No. But I wanted to show off my rings today," she says. She flicks her fingers and her enormous, gaudy rings clack against one another. Several of them feature skulls and spikes. How she can stand to wear the latter is beyond me.

   "In case you need to punch someone, you mean?" I say, brows furrowed. She tilts her head at me.

   "It comes in handy," she purrs.

   "Petrichor!" they call out. She slumps, rolls her eyes, and lets out a loud, inelegant groan.

   "For fuck sake," she mutters as she picks up her large cup of something hot. "They get your name right and then fuck up mine?"

   "Oh, spoke from experience, did you?" I ask, voice bouncing with suppressed laughter. She twists her mouth and glares at the accidental insult on her cup. I'm guessing she never considered spelling out her name for them.

   "It's Melkor. Not Petrichor. But at least that's creative," she grumbles. "Definitely beats the one time they called me 'Milk'." I let out a single, sharp laugh and narrow my eyes at her.

   "Melkor. And you have the gall to make fun of _my_ name," I state and take another sip. Her expression drops back into that sultry gaze. She could very well be undressing me with her eyes right now and there's nothing I can do about it. There's nothing I want to do about it.

   "'Gall' is kind of my thing," she says. She shoots me another elevator-look and suddenly I'm very aware that I had to choose between several tube skirts this morning. The one with the pattern might've looked better, now—or at least more striking.

   “Can I get you something? You know, something besides coffee,” she says, raising a brow at my glass. “I can recommend that chocolate fudge cake.” I barely glance at the sweets display.

   “Are you offering?” I ask.

   “Don’t make me change my mind,” she drawls.

   “Maybe some biscotti,” I say with a shrug. Without hesitation, she pulls a pack out of the display and throws it on the counter. The barista doesn't even have to ask—they’ve probably been listening. After they ring her up she pulls out a Molotow marker from the spiky, oversized purse hanging from her shoulder, scribbles something on the pack, and hands it to me. My gaze shifts back and forth between her grin and the phone number written on the wrapper.

   “I could’ve just found you on Facebook, you know. I doubt a whole lot of people share your name,” I say. When I tuck the biscotti into my shallow pocket, leaving top of the pack sticking out, her breath stalls. Rotating one of her multitudinous rings, she composes herself.

   “Nothing’s keeping you from doing that, too,” she says. She takes a long sip of her drink. My nostrils flare and I swallow past a lump in my throat. If that’s a hot drink, she’s really going the extra mile for the aesthetic right now. She saunters towards the door with a wink—and gives my shoulder a squeeze that makes the fine hairs on my back stand on end in ripples around her touch.

   “Bye bye, now. Have fun,” she whispers as she passes. A smirk spreads across my lips. Turning on my heel, I march back towards my laptop and the rest of my stuff.

   “See you later, ‘Milk’,” I call out after her. At that, she laughs. A gruff and boisterous laugh that resonates through the coffee shop and all the way down the hall until she finally disappears off somewhere. Somehow, of all the things she’s done today, that’s what makes the butterflies in my stomach flutter the most.

 

*

 

Raindrops thrum against my umbrella. The sound does little to soothe the pyre raging in my gut. Not only is the bus late, but I have to take the bus in the first place. It’s always smelly, uncomfortable, and full of noisy people I don't even know. What's the point of paying a car mechanic so much of my hard-earned cash if they can't deliver on time?

  
   With a sharp sigh, I check my phone again. 15 minutes late. At least nobody has to see me stoop to this level. I scan the murky horizon for the hell-vehicle one more time. That's when I spot it. The convertible sitting on the side of the road. Its driver's door is open and the soft beats emanating from its speakers float all the way into my ears. I can see another pair of her huge boots sticking out from the driver's seat from here. I unlock my phone.

Not the smoothest message in the universe, but it'll do. Now I watch her every move.

   It only takes a dozen seconds before she leans back into the car, then leans forward again, this time with her phone in hand. My heartbeats are so loud I could count them when she sticks her phone closer and closer to her face. Then she peeks out of the car. Our gazes meet almost instantly. Flipping my hair, I stride away from the bus shelter, heading towards her. I barely glance at the road before crossing it. If she told me she had a magnet inside of her attuned specifically to me, I'd almost believe her. Mostly because she probably _would_ end up swallowing a magnet somehow.

   The more I close in on her, the more she lights up. Her frown softens, she straightens her back, and she looks ready to hop up and greet me. From this distance I can see the cigarette holder stuck between her index and middle fingers—and between a heap of rings, of course. I stop next to her car and she rises to greet me, but instead she bangs her head on the roof of the car.

   "Son of a bitch," she hisses.

   "Are you alright, klutz?" I ask. Rubbing her scalp, she puts on a goofy, lopsided grin.

   "Besides the oncoming Tom and Jerry bruise, yeah. Just peachy," she says, voice strained with pain. I can't help but snort and giggle at her. This is by far the most formal I've seen her so far. Her rings, necklaces, and make-up are more tasteful and less gaudy than usual. Of course, by most people's standards, she's still crossing several lines. But by Melkor standards, this is damn near tame. Her dress is long and pitch black, though not quite long enough to cover her military boots. The loose satin skirt flows freely from the waistband, while the fabric covering her chest looks fit to bursting—and evidently she has nipple piercings. That halter neck and resulting deep v are as attention-grabbing as a lightning strike.

   She takes a deep drag of her cigarette and stops rubbing her forming bruise.

   "You're just who I needed, you know that?" she says and blows smoke as she speaks. Those words caress my ears like the softest velvet. A smirk spreads across my lips.

   "Right back at you. My car's in the shop and God knows I'd _almost_ rather die than ride the bus," I say, demonstrating with my index and thumb just how close that 'almost' was. She snorts.

   "I think the bus would explode the instant you set foot on it," she says. I snort right back and cover my mouth with my fingers.

   "I should hope so," I mutter. "But now I have a lift, don't I? No manslaughter today." She pouts and pretends to wipe away tears with her fists. Somehow the rain isn't washing out her make-up, though her hair is already sticking to her sepia skin a lot more than it did a minute ago. All of her make-up must be heavy-duty waterproof.

   "You sure do. But!" she says, raising her index and brows dramatically. "I have a counter-offer."

   "Let's hear it."

   "How would you like to go to a _real_ party, Marion?" she asks. Her lips curl into one of those smug grins and I cross my arms as well as I can with an umbrella in my hand.

   "If you use my real _name_ , I could be bothered," I retort. For just a moment, her grin wavers and turns into a far more genuine smile. She recovers quickly and holds her hand out towards me.

   "In that case, your chariot has arrived, my dear Mairon," she purrs. I place my hand in hers and cock a brow at her. She doesn’t miss a beat, but my heart skips one when she presses her lips against my delicate fingers. Not once does she break eye-contact—I'm the one who has to drop my gaze to the glossy asphalt. And it's a much longer kiss than I'd expected. Once she lets go of my hand, with both her lips and her fingers, she circles around her car and opens the passenger door for me. I can't help but grin while the remaining embers in my stomach migrate to my cheeks.

   Just before I motion to sit down, she wraps her cold, slightly wet arms around me. My breath stalls. She squeezes until it's almost uncomfortable. The scent of her overpowering jasmine perfume is only amplified by the rain.

   "It's good to see you again, M," she whispers into my ear. My smile wavers somewhere between beaming and sheepish, and my quivering hands slide up her back. When she lets go of me, she makes sure to leave me with a wink before she strides back to the driver's seat. Clearing my throat, I plop down on the passenger's seat, close up my umbrella, stash it behind the seat, and swing my legs inside. We close our doors at the same time.

   “It’s only been two days,” I mutter, crossing my arms and my legs. There’s plenty of room in here for said long legs and their high heels.

   “That didn’t keep me from missing you something awful,” she whimpers and sticks out her lower lip out like a sullen child who was denied her 7th cookie. I grin at her and lean my head back on the headrest. Raindrops pelt the windscreen, just barely obscuring my view before the wipers clear it. The drawling, slow beats from the speakers urge my heartrate and breathing to calm and slow down. My brows furrow when the singer belts out a verse, however.

   “What is this?” I ask.

   “What’s what?” she asks.

   “This song. The music.” She grins.

   “Me,” she says. I stare at her for a second.

   ”You?”

   ”Yeah.”

   ”Singing?”

   “Yeah.” I narrow my eyes at her and lower my chin. It turns into rather the glare.

   “You’re listening to your own music? In your car? Just for fun?” I ask. She giggles once or twice.

   “Yes ma’am,” she purrs. I turn my gaze away from her, back to the mosaic on the windscreen and the bright, lit-up windows in the nearby buildings—universities and apartment blocks. It’s very much like one big stained-glass window.

   “That’s borderline narcissistic,” I mutter. She barks out one single, genuine laugh.

   “Gotta love it, right?” The corners of my mouth pull up into an involuntary smile that I can’t suppress.

   “Yeah. Gotta love it,” I repeat under my breath.

   “You have to be your own biggest fan, right?” she says and takes a drag. My smile curls into a smirk.

   “I’m sure someone could outdo you,” I say. My stomach stings at my own words and my smirk wavers. She laughs again, harder this time. It resounds against the chassis, filling my heart as well as my ears—whether I like it or not.

   “Oh, I highly doubt that,” she says once she’s done, voice still bouncing with laughter.

   “I don’t,” I state. I catch her glancing at me for just a moment out of the corner of my eye, and I let the sentence float in the air between us for just a few moments longer than necessary. “You know, especially if your band has any fans out there,” I continue. She blinks multitudinously, then takes another drag.

   “We do have a few. Nobody who has any clue who we actually are. It’s been a while since we worked on this project, but, well. Still. You know how it is,” she says.

   “Who’s ‘we’?”

   “Nobody you know,” she says with a wink. I roll my eyes and groan at her.

   “That’s the most dissatisfying answer,” I grumble.

   “I know. I chose it just to annoy you,” she says. I’m about to retort, but she brushes a few stray hairs out of my face and tucks them behind my ear, stroking my cheekbone with her fingers in the process. My breath stalls, electricity tingles in my stomach, my cheeks burst into flames anew.

   “Well, you succeeded,” I say, but my grumbling is softened by my smile. Silence reigns between us for a few moments, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. We aren’t searching desperately for things to say or jokes to make. We’re just here. Quietly enjoying the company. Until she breaks that silence, at least.

   “You should let your natural colour grow back. Instead of bleaching it,” she says. At that, I can’t help but twirl a tuft of my hair around my fingers.

   “Why?” She shrugs.

   “It’d suit you. I’d like to see it,” she says, her voice taking on just a hint of a sultry croak. I scoff.

   “You don’t even know what my real hair colour is,” I retort. She chuckles.

   “Sure I do. Your redder eyebrows give it away,” she says. My lips part for just a moment and I trail my fingers across one of my brows. Then I clear my throat and compose myself, crossing my arms as hard as I can.

   “I’ll think about it,” I mutter. A few seconds pass.

   “Have you thought about what I said?” she asks. I snort and whack her shoulder with the back of my hand. Her jaw drops and she glares at me like a teenage girl who was denied her 17th cookie.

   “Mairon!” she exclaims.

   “Give me more than two seconds to think, you prick!” I say, words nearly mangled by the laugh building in my chest.

   “Oh—that’s—no!” she says, but ends up laughing that boom of a laugh that teases my own out of my throat as well. If anyone heard us now, they’d think two hyenas were hopelessly stuck in a moving car.

   “Okay, yeah, I would. I would pull that shit. That’s fair,” she says, still giggling. “Mairon, dammit, I meant to ask if you’d considered what I asked you _last time_ we spoke.” I cover my eyes with my hand, then glare at her.

   “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

   “Evidently you weren’t! But have you?” I examine my nails as if they needed scrutiny and weren’t already as perfect as can be.

   “My answer remains the same.” She clicks her tongue.

   “Oh. So mysterious,” she says. I scoff once more. “The pay would be good. Promise,” she continues.

   “My pay is already good. Better than most,” I state.

   “Even better than that,” she insists. Glancing at her for just a moment out of the corner of my eye reveals another of her lopsided grins all over her face.

   “I said I’ll think about it,” I say and let out a small sigh. “Give me a week or so, Melkor. It’s an important decision, you know. More so than, say… growing my natural hair colour back out.” She giggles, sending my stomach for a loop. It’s almost innocent and girlish, as opposed to the rest of her—and her usual laugh.

   “That’s fair. But you know I’ll be there on the dot to ask you again in a week,” she drawls. I roll my eyes.

   “Yeah. I know.” With that, she shuts up. We sink back into our comfortable silence, and I sink into the passenger’s seat. The rhythmic thrum, the soft beats, and her occasional deep drags nearly lull me to sleep. I stir from my descent when she turns on her Zippo to light another cigarette. What she did with the former stub, I don’t know. Perhaps she ate it. Just when I return to the brink of sleep, my brain puts together the puzzle pieces my ears have been providing. There aren’t any other cars around us anymore; no tires on wet asphalt, honking, or splashing through puddles by the side of the road.

   I force my eyes open. Instead of being surrounded by high-rise buildings and neon lights, fields and forests flank the country road as far as the eye can see. I stretch and yawn loudly.

   “Hey, sleepyhead,” she says, like one would to a sweet little child who just woke up from a nap.

   “Did I sleep?” I ask and clear my throat when my voice turns out to be mushy and coarse.

   “You sure did snore,” she muses. Flames crawl up my cheeks.

   “Oh,” I breathe. She smacks my arm with the back of her hand and I jump in my seat.

   “Just kidding, M. I could barely hear it,” she says.

   “Oh. But I did snore.”

   “A little.”

   “How long?”

   “Half an hour, I think.” I furrow my brows.

   “Where is this party exactly?” I ask. “Forgive my narrow-mindedness, but you don’t seem like a country gal.” She snorts and laughs once.

   “Nah, I wouldn’t call it that. But, well—” She clears her throat. “I’ve duped you. Just a little,” she admits. I cock a brow at her.

   “Oh?” I hum, a surprisingly sharp sound even for me. She laughs again, an uncharacteristically shrill sound.

   “Yeah, well, only kind of. Tiny little lies—really, a lie by omission more so than anything else. It’s, well, you know… It’s kind of a family gathering. Or event. Party. Whatever.” My lips part. “You’re my, uh, accomplice for this really fancy, _lovely_ party. Aka. a fucking boring party. But _I_ will be there, so you know it’s gonna be sick anyway,” she rambles, gesturing wildly, tone dripping with the sort of venom you reserve only for family matters. I press my lips together and straighten my pleated skirt.

   “Am I underdressed?” I ask, then glance at her nipple piercings, still visible underneath the satin dress. “Are _you_?” Her lips curl into a smirk.

   “Are you kidding me?” she says. “You’ll outshine everyone else at the party.” Mine curl into a more sheepish smile.

   “Outshine _your_ family? I doubt that,” I mutter. Before she can retort I twist in my seat to better face her. “Am I to pretend to be your hook-up for the night? Your arm candy? Would that work?” She giggles and bites into her lower lip for just a moment.

   “Sure,” she mumbles, glancing back and forth between me and the road ahead. Flipping my hair, I lean in and press a kiss to her cheekbone. Her jasmine scent wafts by my nose once more. I let the kiss linger on her skin before I pull back, barely deigning to look at her.

   “I can do that,” I whisper. A pink hue spreads across her cheeks, all the way up to her ears.

 

*

 

She lets out a groan more reminiscent of a grumpy tiger's than that of a human and downs the rest of her wine. She manages to clear almost a whole glass in just a few gulps. I doubt I’d be able to replicate that stunt no matter how hard I tried. What I can do is lean against her when she starts tilting dangerously to one side. Even though I sat her down to prevent any accidents, she can barely stay seated.

   “Fuck this,” she snarls and flings the bottle backwards, far over the fountain we’re sitting on. It shatters against the cobblestones, leaving behind a sizeable red stain.

   “ _God_ ,” she continues. “Nobody fucking cares. Conservative pricks. None of them are worth shit.” I wrap my fingers around her bicep when she starts tilting to the other side. “Not that they’ll ever know, ‘cause they’re so busy licking each other’s ass! Asses. Whatever. _Nobody_ gives a shit. What the fuck am I supposed to do,” she growls. She reaches for my glass of champagne and I hold it far away from her to protect it.

   “This one’s mine, honey,” I say, tone sweet like the very substance. Instead, she leans her head on my shoulder and wraps her arms round me—loosely, thank god.

   “Mairon,” she whines.

   “What?” I ask her.

   “You’re the only one here worth _shit_ ,” she says. I can’t help but snort. My short stature and light frame once again betrays me in the presence of alcohol.

   “I could say the same about you,” I mutter. Squinting, she jabs a finger at me.

   “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” she slurs. I raise a single brow. It only takes a few seconds before she squints harder and breaks into a goofy smile. The sight makes the butterflies in my stomach flutter wildly.

   “Oh,” she says. “You’re adorable.” I wink at her despite myself.

   “Wanna get out of here?” I ask. “We can just call a cab, right?” She shakes her head, pouting.

   “Not until I’ve danced on the dessert table and ruined all the petit fours,” she states. I roll my eyes, though my smirk doesn’t even consider fading.

   “Alright. Fine. I guess I’ll be there to bail you out,” I say with a sigh. She pokes at me once more.

   “See! You’re the kind of person I need in my life. Someone who’s got my fucking six,” she exclaims.

   “Always,” I say—and it surprises even myself. I press my lips together and tighten my abs for a moment while her stare softens. She looks like a boisterous puppy that suddenly realized that there’s a whole world beyond the family farm.

   And just like that, she presses her lips against mine. I tense and my teeth ache from the clash. She both smells and tastes like a cacophony of everything she’s been drinking all night. And yet it feels like we were struck by lightning. My skin tingles, my insides bubble, and my knees go hollow. My hand rises to cup her cheek without me ever willing it to. I relax in the grasp of her soft, plush lips. Our kiss deepens for just a moment before she pulls back, tongue trailing across both of our lower lips in the process.

   “My father’s gonna hate me even more than he already does,” she states and promptly heaves herself up off the fountain. I’m frozen in place for a few more seconds before she nearly falls backwards into the water—and I shoot up to support her back. Then I link our elbows.

   “Let’s see if we can get you inside without any further incidents, yeah?” I say. She mumbles something unintelligible in response. It’s no easy task, guiding this mountain of a woman and supporting varying amounts of her weight against my own spindly form. But I’m left with a growing sensation that there’s nothing I’d rather do. I’ve never felt anything like this before—these tendrils of warmth growing in my bosom, spreading out into every corner of my very being. It's as if something that’s been lying dormant within me has finally erupted, finally sprung to life.

   I intertwine our fingers as well, and she holds on for dear life.

 

*

 

7 piercings. 8 including the one in her tongue. 9 including the one down south. Unless she somehow has another between her toes, which I don't remember seeing during the night, then these are it. Though a belly button piercing would really suit her, especially with all those crop tops she wears. But she probably doesn't need me to tell her that.

   I brush a few stray hairs away from her face and rest my head in the palm of my hand. This is by far the most peaceful I've seen her. Splayed out, still naked, face and body soft and relaxed. Her snoring, however, isn't particularly relaxing for anyone in the general vicinity. My head is heavy with lethargy, having been awake for about an hour at this point. She's effectively keeping me up without actively doing anything at all.

   Stifling a yawn, I slide out of bed and slide my borrowed robe back on. It catches slightly on my shins whose stubble desperately needs shaving. Though, glancing at her sleeping form once more, I'd guess she hasn't shaved anything, ever. At least the silk robe is nice and smooth against the rest of my body—and her scent clings to it, mixing with the remains of that intense jasmine fragrance. I'm still smelling the collar when I arrive in the kitchen. I tear myself away from the smell to pour some water in the kettle and put it on the stove. After rifling around to find two mugs that don't even remotely match anyway, I drop a tea bag in each. Sugar will have to do—in her cup, not in mine—because she has no honey.

   She strikes me as the sort of person who'll happily eat in-between inevitably whining about her hangover. Even if she won't, I'm hungry after last night. And if I were to guess, I’m suffering a lot less than she will be. Perusing the fridge and the cabinets, I retrieve everything I need; eggs, a half-eaten pack of bacon, pancake mix, half a carton of yoghurt, and some old muesli. The expiration date is looming over the muesli like a stormy cloud over a picnic, so I'll have to examine it thoroughly before I do anything with it. She has just enough milk for the pancake mix and just a tiny bit of cream for some coffee. Coffee _and_ tea? She's a big girl with a hangover, why not.

   Pancakes from a mix smell and act so different from the ones I make from scratch. Even if it's been years since I last did that. The muesli is dry, but not dead. Some fresh berries would really liven it up, but she has none and lord knows I'm not in the mood to go anywhere to get some. I'll just have to reimburse her for the ingredients—and perhaps make some suggestions for next time.

   I jump in place when her raspy voice rings through the kitchen.

   "What the fuck are you doing?" she croaks, rubbing the sleep seeds from her eyes. I almost gasp as my eyes rake over her body; she didn't even bother putting any clothes on. Her soft stomach protrudes over her thong, the single piece of clothing she's still wearing, while her breasts rest freely on her chest. A sheepish smile spreads across my face—both because of her and because of the sentence I'm prepping in my mind.

   "It's called breakfast, Melkor. Ever heard of that?" I quip. She narrows her eyes and stares back and forth between me and said meal.

   "I'm hungry," she grumbles and scratches her happy trail. I can't help but roll my eyes, still smiling.

   "That's what this is for, you know," I say. The kettle whistles and I take it off—but not before taking two paracetamols out of the bottle I found and pouring her a glass of OJ. Tea or coffee would be far too hot with freshly boiled water, even for her.

   "This is the third damn drink I'm prepping for you," I mutter as I hand it to her. Judging by her furrowed brows, she's barely comprehending what I'm saying.

   "You made three cocktails?" she asks.

   "Juice, tea, and coffee. That's all. Here." I shove the pills and the glass into her hands. She works on muscle memory and swallows both pills, then chugs the entire glass of juice. Not bothering to hand it back to me, she instead sits herself down on a stool in the corner. She has to curl up to sit on it; I can't imagine she actually uses it for anything other than sitting. She can't possibly need assistance to reach anything in this kitchen.

   "Oh, dude. Pancakes," she says. I snort as I try to smother my laugh. "You made all this just for me?" she asks, tone far softer. There's almost a hint of reverence to it.

   "For both of us. I'm hungry too. But mostly for you. I think you eat more than I do," I say. "Just a guess, though." She blinks at me several times. I can't quite read the expression on her face. It's either awed or deeply sleepy and a little somber. Or perhaps all of the above.

   "You can go back to bed, you know. Nobody says we can't eat breakfast there," I say, though the mere thought of crumbs in her bed makes my skin crawl. That's what breadless meals exist to prevent, really. She turns around with a sniffle and shuffles back towards her bedroom. Just in time for me to flip the first pancake.

   It doesn’t take long at all before everything is done. There are no chives for the eggs and the syrup seems to have welded itself shut, but a slice of butter for her will probably do. Stacking the plates on a tray that doesn’t look like it’s ever been used, the difference between her plates and mine is rather staggering. It’s like comparing a molehill to a mountain. Or perhaps just a bigger hill.

   I carry the tray into the bedroom only to find her snoring once again. Placing it on the bedroom bench, I slither back into bed. For a moment, I toy with the idea of trailing my fingers across her happy trail, up to her chest, to fiddle with her nipple piercings. The thought lingers in my mind like a virus, almost strong enough to lift my arm. My fingers are tingling when I instead opt for brushing her tousled hair out of her face—again. I for one would not appreciate someone touching me like that when I’m sleeping. So I’ll keep it to myself. For now.

   Her snoring abruptly stops when I stroke her cheek with my thumb.

   “Hey, sleepyhead. Nice nap?” I ask, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. She groans, but returns my smile nevertheless.

   “Not really,” she mutters.

   “Aw. Good thing I have breakfast for you, then,” I say. Her eyes widen.

   “Oh, right,” she muses and stretches. I carefully move the tray up onto the blankets, placing the coffee and our tea on the end table.

   “Where’s your tray?” she asks with a smirk. I scoff and whack her shoulder with the back of my hand.

   “Be cheeky and I’ll have to ask you the same thing,” I say. Her smirk turns into a far more genuine smile.

   Finally, I am unable to resist anymore. I slide my hand up the back of her head and push her head towards mine, slamming our lips together. She tastes like sleep and orange juice and I don’t mind one bit. I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh. My soft lips against hers are a bigger bliss than satisfying my growling stomach could ever be. Just before she slides her tongue into my mouth, I break our kiss. I place my index on her lips and lean back, grabbing a fork with my other hand.

   “Later,” I say.

   “You’re a harsh mistress, aren’t you?” she purrs.

   “You have no idea.”


End file.
